


last of her name

by hholocene



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Introspection, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, but also she's woman who has lost everything and nearly got killed, dany centric, dark!dany in places (kind of), so she's hella angry and lost all her patience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 23:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hholocene/pseuds/hholocene
Summary: "In the name of family, they commit all their crimes."Dany lives, but not by magic. Another take at what could have come after Jon's attempt to kill her.





	last of her name

**Author's Note:**

> She's still *Jon Snow voice* my (problematic) Queen.
> 
> Edit: before people go off on the treatment of Jon, this fic is from Dany's perspective. As such it's not entirely that generous to him and so if you are after that type of fic, this is not it. There are various narrative choices that can fit for post-s8 and this is just one of them.

Honour. Duty.

 

Men and honour. Or is it just Stark men? _But he’s not a Stark_ , a chiding voice snipes in her mind.

 

Westerosi men then.

 

Women don’t dwell on it nearly as much. This is what she contemplates as the Dothraki women wrap bandages across her bleeding chest. 

 

She sees red everywhere. Blood on her bandages. Blood on her hands. Blood on the streets.

 

. .

 

When she wakes she thinks death would have been better. Her entire body aches. It hurts to breathe. 

 

But worst of all is the stinging rebuke of his betrayal. She loved him. _She loved him_.

 

She’s weeping at the memory. Those are the last tears she will ever shed over Jon Snow.

 

. .

 

Grey Worm tells her he keeps asking to see her. She laughs at that. A manic, humourless laugh.

 

“Let him suffer,” she growls. Let him drown in his sorrow. Of that she is sure. His honour commands it.

 

His godforsaken honour.

 

_Kinslayer. Oathbreaker._

 

She’ll see to it that Jon Snow has no honour left.

 

. .

 

Sansa Stark threatens war in the name of the true King, Aegon Targaryen.

 

The fire itches within her, the violent urge to burn Winterfell to a crisp.

 

But she can barely stand upright, let alone ride Drogon.

 

The bitch can come to King’s Landing, she decides. If she wants her throne, she can come fight for it. She won’t, of course. She knows her type. Like Tyrion and Varys. Others will die in their name, while they plot and deceive and trade clever words.

 

No more. Sansa Stark will have to get her hands bloodied. 

 

. .

 

It is an army of wildings who come first. They try valiantly, better than could have been expected. And their odds were much more favourable with no dragon in sight.

 

But they are no match for her Dothraki, the humble Khalasar that remains, and her Unsullied.

 

They’ve been clamouring for Jon Snow’s execution and the battlefield brings sweet respite to their bloodlust.

 

. .

 

Sometimes, she thinks about Missandei’s smile.

 

Jorah’s deep voice calling out to her, _Khaleesi_.

 

Bells jingling in the open air, as Drogo rides his mount. Her Rhaego in his arms.

 

Even Viserys enters her thoughts. Back when he was younger and kinder. The way brothers are meant to be.

 

And then the memories wash away into a pool of molten gold, until all she hears his pathetic scream. 

 

_Dany. Please._

 

What would he think now? She wonders. 

 

Fire and blood was always her brother’s obsession. He fantasized about murdering the Baratheons, the Starks and the Lannisters. Anyone who ever deigned to slight their House.

 

She only ever wanted to go home. Now, all the power in the world is hers. 

 

And yet, and yet…

 

You are not happy, a voice shouts in her mind.

 

. .

 

He looks like shit. It’s the first thought that enters her mind, and so she tells him.

 

“Aye,” is his feeble reply.

 

“Is the food not to your liking?” She says snidely, remarking on his newly thin frame.

 

“The hospitality is faultless,” he replies with equal sarcasm.

 

His eyes water and a strangled sob breaks through.

 

“Why am I still alive?” He asks, and truly she doesn’t know.

 

She hears Tyrion’s faded voice in her mind, because it’s the clever thing to do it says.

 

“Why did you do it?” She asks. 

 

“You burned the city, you burned everyone,” he tries to explain.

 

“They knew,” she roars out loud. “They knew Cersei, and still they chose her. Craven fools!”

 

“No. No.” Tears wet his cheeks. “They were innocent. They needed your protection, Dany.”

 

 _Dany_. There it is again. How false it sounds coming from his lips now.

 

“I gave you everything. Do you ever think about that?” She yells at him and his face twists in agony. 

 

“I came North for you. I fought the Night King for you. I lost my armies and my dragons and the only two people in this world who truly fucking loved me, _for you_. Do ever think about that, Jon Snow?”

 

Somewhere in her mind, she thinks she lost her sanity too.

 

“Kill me then,” he begs of her. “Why not just kill me?”

 

“Because,” the smirk on her lips is cruel. “Your sisters are coming.”

 

And she needs something to bargain with.

 

. .

 

“Jon Snow is the Rightful King,” Sansa declares to the gathering of Lords at the Dragonpit. “His real name is Aegon Targaryen, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

 

“Targaryen, you say?” She retorts with a devilish grin, dragging her eyes to the chained man next to her. “He doesn’t look much like a Targaryen.”

 

The Lords murmur and the Lady of Winterfell’s voice grows more haughty.

 

“It is true, my brother has seen it.”

 

“Because the word of a crippled boy is all the truth in the world?”

 

“Because Jon Snow rode a dragon. Who else could ride a dragon?”

 

The Lords hum and mutter words of agreement. 

 

“Who else?” She lets out a cynical laugh. “Jon Snow rode a dragon because _I_ let him. Dragons answer to know one but they know friend from foe. And I”, she loathes to admit it but, “I loved him.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she watches him flinch. Good, she thinks. 

 

“But you say he is a dragon,” she continues with saccharine sweetness. “There is a way to find out. Fire cannot kill a dragon, you see. Let Jon Snow stand before my dragon. If he is who you say he is, he will live. Then I will gladly give him his rightful crown. What do you think Lady Sansa?”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Arya Starks lets out a feral snarl, but her sister places a slowing hand on her shoulder. The elder Stark looks to their all seeing brother, only to be met with a vacant gaze.

 

“What will it be Lady Sansa? Will you wager your brother’s, or is it cousin’s, life?”

 

“I don’t want the throne,” Jon croaks out.

 

She watches in delight as Sansa shuts her eyes, succumbing to defeat with a sigh.

 

“Let him live,” Sansa says simply. “Had him over to us and the North will bend the knee.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“The North will never accept you,” Sansa declares.

 

“I’ve found people’s pride is far weaker in the face of dragonfire.”

 

“Is that kind of Queen you want to be?”

 

To her credit, Sansa Stark holds her nerve, looks her right into the eye. It’s admirable in a way. In another life, she might have liked her.

 

She rises to her feet, walks towards the centre of the dragonpit and Drogon lets out a characteristic roar. Lest anyone forget she is the fearsome Dragon Queen.

 

“Jon Snow tried to kill me. Who here would not repay such a crime against them with death?” she commands to know. At the uncomfortable silence, she sniggers. “None of you. But I am better than that. Let the people know that Daenerys Targaryen is a merciful Queen. Jon Snow shall live, banished to the Night’s Watch. But for their insolence, House Stark will be stripped of its lands and titles. Winterfell will be handed to the new Warden of the North.”

 

Sansa’s face is an icy mask. She expects petulant indignation and yet to her surprise, she finds a weary acceptance. Maybe the girl is as smart as everyone claims. But Sansa would still be remiss to not make a final appeal.

 

“If you want to repair the Realm after all these wars, you will need stability in every Kingdom. The Starks have held the North for centuries. Where you to hand it to some lesser House, their hold will be weak.”

 

“I would be a fool to leave it in the hands of the woman who has plotted my demise since the day she met me.”

 

“Who will it be then?”

 

“The Northern Lords once named Jon Snow their King. The people, highborn and lowborn alike, will choose a new leader again.”

 

“Your Grace, that would be unprecedented,” she hears a Lord protest.

 

She straightens her spine, stands taller and revels in the disconcerted surprise of her audience.

 

“My reign is unprecedented.”

 

. .

 

“Why?” Jon asks her, bewildered by the fact he is still breathing.

 

She wants to laugh, and cry, and scream. 

 

“Because you are family,” she tells him honestly. 

 

Once, all she had was a cruel brother. And then he died by her husband’s hand and she was doomed to be the last Targaryen. But there was another, across the distant sea. One who was kinder, more honourable, and in the end, no better.

 

How cruel the Gods are, she thinks.

 

“I did it for my sisters,” Jon admits suddenly. His voice is breaking, straining in anguish. “There were many reasons, but I...I feared for their lives.”

 

She listens in quiet, painstaking acceptance. It’s a truth she has long suspected. 

 

In the name of family, they commit all their crimes. 

 

“Farewell, Jon Snow,” she says simply.

 

. .

 

It is months after her attack that she finally has the full strength to return on Drogon’s back. For one blissful afternoon, she flies away from King’s Landing. In the sky there is a freedom she has nearly forgotten.

 

He takes her to some recess of Westeros, where exactly she does not know. She cares not. She is away from that dastardly city that smells like shit and wrecks her soul in little fragments. She looks upon the rolling green hills, takes in the open expanse of untamed nature and finally, it feels like she can breathe again.

 

In this moment of peace, she cannot hide from the truth that tortures her mind. She is alone. So unbearably alone in this world.

 

She almost lets out a pitying sob, until she hears the voice of children clamouring up a hill.

 

“Look, it really was a dragon!” a little girl excitedly squeals to her brother.

 

With a startle, she sees the young pair approaching Drogon.

 

“Stop,” she shouts, afraid of what Drogon would do. The boy and girl had been so enraptured by the dragon, that they had not noticed the lone woman. They observe her closely, and she sees distrust colour their innocent faces.

 

“He doesn’t take well to strangers,” she tries to explain gently, taking tentative steps closer. She fears they may flee at any moment.

 

“Are you the Queen?” the boy asks uncertainly.

 

She considers lying but only an utter fool would believe it with Drogon by her side.

 

“Yes,” she answers. 

 

“Are you here to burn us?” the boy questions, with that painful openness that only children possess.

 

Her eyes widen in horror, her heart feeling laden with heaviness. Her response is an emphatic, _no_.

 

She waits for their response, so very afraid of what they might say next. 

 

“Do you really ride your dragon?” the girl speaks up.

 

“Yes,” she proudly replies. “Would you like to touch him?”

 

The boy looks wary still but his sister leaps at the opportunity. It makes her heart soar to see someone afford her son the awe he deserves.

 

“Come,” she says softly, beckoning the children to move closer. She places a hand on Drogon’s snout and wills him to behave. The children are apprehensive, their steps forward slow but she watches the fascination that envelops them. When their hands make contact with Drogon’s skin, even the skeptical brother lets out a smile.

 

“His name is Drogon,” she tells them quietly. 

 

When they finally break away, the siblings share a curious look.

 

“You aren’t that scary,” the boy lets slip.

 

She returns a weak smile, “You must have heard stories about me.”

 

“Mother said you burned everyone in the capital,” the girl informs her in a small voice. 

 

She blinks, startled by the statement. It is a fact she has deflected countless times now, grown immune to Jon’s accusatory tone. But there is something crushing about hearing it from a child. _They are scared of her_ , she realises with a debilitating blow.

 

“I,” she starts and is immediately gripped by doubt. What could she say? “The Queen before me was evil. I only punish those who deserve it.”

 

The children look at her with a combination of confusion, uncertainty and childlike acceptable. It makes her feel empty.

 

Fear, she had once proclaimed, would be enough. 

 

And it’s not.

 

In her heart of hearts, she still craves to be loved. She wants to be revered, and cherished, and adored.

 

. .

 

She walks into his dark cell and takes in his small figure, curled in the corner, hands chained.  

 

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” his voice drips with cynicism. 

 

She ushers her guards away and with a restless sigh, slumps to the ground. 

 

“There’s unrest in the Westerlands,” she supplies blankly.

 

Tyrion laughs, a full hearty laugh. 

 

“Is that why you have kept me alive all this time? For my counsel?” he snarks. 

 

It’s the only question they all seem capable of asking her. Why do they live? Why doesn’t she kill them? 

 

Queen of death. Mother of monsters. If that all she is now?

 

“I am not sure your counsel has ever been useful,” she tells him.

 

“To torture me then. Force me to live out the rest of my days in this empty cell. My mind rotting away.”

 

She shakes her head and her eyes fall shut in agony.

 

“I don’t want to kill you,” she admits and when she opens her eyes again, she sees tears on his cheeks. Her own feel damp too.

 

“I never meant to betray you,” Tyrion says sincerely.

 

“You loved Cersei.”

 

He nods, voice burdened with guilt. “I did. Even after everything she did, I loved her.”

 

“The ties that bind family,” she states as a matter of fact. “But perhaps not always. You convinced Jon to kill me.”

 

“What was I to do? I thought you were going to execute me.”

 

“Your talent for self-preservation knows no bounds.”

 

“What did you do with him?” 

 

“Don’t worry. He’s living too. Somewhere in the far North, far far away from me.”

 

“You exiled him,” Tyrion says in surprise. It both infuriates her and touches her with pride. _Yes_ , she was capable of mercy too.

 

“Do you really think me that cruel?” she asks.

 

“I stopped knowing who you are,” he replies truthfully.

 

“I loved him so much,” she confides and Tyrion can only look back with something akin to regret. 

 

“He loved you too. He only did what he thought was right.”

 

“Love is not love that bends so easily, even at the call of duty.”

 

They stare at each other, ruminating in old sorrows and heartaches.

 

“I,” Tyrion’s voice cracks, “I truly believed in you.”

 

She blinks at the tears she feels coming.

 

“I know,” she mumbles, wiping at her eyes. “When did you stop, I wonder?”

 

Was it at King’s Landing? In Winterfell? Or on the shores of Dragonstone? He is merely silent in response.

 

“We should have stayed in Mereen,” she ponders aloud. “We could have all been happy.”

 

“You still could,” he says, with a small smile. If her heart had not become so hardened, she might have thought he still cares.

 

“I can’t go back,” she states, voice as hard as Valyrian steel. She stumbles on to her feet, eyes struggling to meet Tyrion’s watchful gaze. 

 

“I’ve done _terrible_ things. Things that I can never fully atone for but they are done. I can’t change the past, but I _can_ make it count for something. I must.”

 

He looks at her, with softness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but lurks in the corners.

 

“You might just prove us all wrong,” he tells her.

 

She nods, flashing a rueful glimmer of her old smile.

 

“You are being moved to new quarters. That’s what I came here to say,” she informs him.

 

There’s another look of surprise on his face, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

 

He wants to ask why again but some things are better left unsaid. He’s learnt to become familiar with silence. He carefully takes in the Queen before him. Her beauty is still blinding but the fatigue falters through with ease. For a woman so young, she is worn out by her wars and worries. He remembers Mereen and the woman he met there. Still burdened but not nearly so overwhelmed.

 

“Daenerys,” his calls out with burgeoning earnestness. “ _I’m sorry._ ”

 

“Me too,” she replies in parting. 

 

. .

 

She stands on the shores of Blackwater Bay and watches the waves crash into each other. She will always favour fire but the sea has its own serenity.

 

In truth, it’s not nearly as beautiful as Dragonstone but this is the city she chose. Conquered it in fire and blood. Borne out of vengeance and spite but in the name of a higher purpose.

 

She shuts her eyes, and lets the sea spray wipe away the memories of a burning city.

 

_I must be better._

 

She is the last of her name.

 

The final dragon.

 

Gods help her if House Targaryen's dying memory is of a Mad Queen.

 

 _I will be better_ , she vows to herself.

 

And Daenerys Targaryen is always true to her promises. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I gave Tyrion a kinder edit. Mainly because for s1-4 he was such a MVP character that even after the stupidity of s7-8, I have goodwill left. Both him and Jon (and like 80% of the characters) were trash in season 8 and people just redeem whoever is their favourite, which is totally fair but let's be honest about it.
> 
> But anyway, Tyrion and Dany's friendship deserved more. I'll fight anyone who denies that Dany naming him her Hand is not one of the show's most genuine, heartfelt moments.


End file.
